


One more moment

by sloganeer



Category: Historical Farm (UK TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Family Dinners, Gen, Peter POV, Victorian, WIP Amnesty, edwardian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 18:51:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19257112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sloganeer/pseuds/sloganeer
Summary: As much as he loves their little cottage, it’s rarely peaceful. Before he joins them, Peter needs one more moment.





	One more moment

**Author's Note:**

> The Farms are my ultimate comfort food. I watch them whenever I feel down. This is a tiny moment I wrote in the midst of my last marathon. No plot, just happiness.

He stops outside the door, scrapes his boots on the straw mat, and takes a breath. Peter can hear Alex complaining about the weeds, and he can smell Ruth's rabbit stew. As much as he loves their little cottage, it’s rarely peaceful. Before he joins them, Peter needs one more moment.

He presses his forehead against the cool wood of the door. It was faded green when they moved in two summers ago, but Peter found a can of red paint in the barn, left behind by the previous tenants. He repainted the chicken coop first, and there was enough to refinish the door. 

Ruth was giddy when she came back from her shopping trip to town to find her door matched her favourite coat. She kissed his cheek. 

"It's lovely, Peter, thank you."

He clasped her hand in his, quiet and happy with such small things as their life.

“Peter!” is the first thing Alex says when the door opens.

“We were getting worried,” Ruth says, wiping her hands on her apron and coming around the table to help Peter struggle out of his mack. “Dinner’s been ready for ages. Did you get lost in the dark?”

“Peter has a nose sharper than a bloodhound's.” Alex is on his feet now, too, and Peter can see that he’s already dressed down for the night—no tie, collar pulled loose, woolen slippers. “He’d find his way to your table, Ruth, in the darkest winter.”

Ruth fusses, pulling leaves from Peter’s hair, before she guides him to his regular chair at the table.

"The animals are bedded down for the night."

"How's the little guy?" Alex asks. "First night sleeping without mum."

Peter nods. They're weaning their calf, and they've moved him into his own stall in the barn. The sooner they can encourage him to be independent, the more milk Ruth will have for the dairy. 

"Yeah, seems to be all right." Peter doesn't say anything about the whimpering noises he heard as he left the barn. Alex has always been a softer touch with the stock. 

"Ready for more milking?" 

"So, what's in the pot?"

"Like you can't smell it," Ruth says, swatting his shoulder and returning to the stove. 

Alex pours the tea because he's up. Peter moves the strainer from cup to cup until all three are filled, then he adds a drop of milk in Ruth's. Alex drinks his tea black, and Peter usually takes milk, but tonight, he pulls his flask from his vest and holds it up in a question.

"Go on then," Alex whispers. 

"What's that, boys?"

Peter pours the whiskey before Ruth turns around, spoon in hand. 

"Nothing," they say together.

"Hold out your plates," she says.

Ruth serves the stew, thick and brown with rabbit pieces, golden carrots, and potatoes. Alex slices the bread, and Peter can't wait to get stuck in. 

He spent the day fighting against the rain, giving up on job after job and getting nothing done that they had planned. At least Alex and Ruth got to spend the morning at the bank, sitting in a dry office. Peter leaves that part of running the farm to them. He prefers the jobs he can do with his hands. 

But he listens as they talk. Alex worries, which is why it's good he has Ruth. She cuts through the guff, demands straight answers, and gets them. They were just seasonal labourers when they met Ruth, moving with the harvest. 

She made them into farmers. 

"You two missed some excitement on the farm," Peter says. 

Ruth sets her teacup back on its saucer. "Really?"

“I do like a bit of excitement.” Alex leans back into his chair, which creaks in protest.

After dinner is finished, only the sounds of cutlery scraping up the last bits of sauce, Ruth is quick to stand.

"Sit," Peter demands as soon as she pushes her chair back. "I'll do this. You go sit in your chair." He points to the stuffed armchair he and Alex refurbished and gave to Ruth last Christmas. Alex bought it cheap from a neighbour, and Peter figured out what kind of nails worked best with the red brocade fabric they traded at the market for a few dozen eggs.

"Put the kettle on, Peter," Alex says. "Let's have some more tea."

As Ruth settles down mending a shirt from her basket, Peter clears away dinner, and Alex does the washing up. If they're going to stay up with another pot of tea, they might as well put another shovel of coal in the stove.


End file.
